


Cleansing Wave Flowing Through my Veins

by toastyhusbandstand



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bartender Mickey Milkovich, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Cocky Ian Gallagher, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Hopeful Ending, Kinda?, M/M, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Top Ian Gallagher, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, not the healthiest of relationships, our boys are in love they just haven't figured it out yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastyhusbandstand/pseuds/toastyhusbandstand
Summary: Ian isn’t bothered at all, worse, he seems to find Mickey’s behaviour funny when it's supposed to be fucking threatening. “V knows we’re fucking. Kev knows we’re fucking. I’m pretty sure Kermit knows we’re fucking. Who are you trying to fool, Mick?”The "me" goes unsaid, but it’s as obvious as the palpable sexual tension between them. Mickey avoids both by busying himself with serving Ian his standard drink of choice, Guinness on tap.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 26
Kudos: 180





	Cleansing Wave Flowing Through my Veins

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in the middle of the night only to quench my thirst haha  
> Enjoy!

Mickey thinks that he might have an addiction. A terrible, deathly, life-consuming addiction. It’s not like the possibility is so unlikely or downright outrageous, considering the shitty Milkovich genes running through his veins.

Unlike the rest of his family, his poison of choice is not alcohol nor drugs. Nope, Mickey's addiction is much more dangerous than the trendy dependences and it comes in the form of a tall, muscular, foul-mouthed ginger going by the name of Ian Gallagher. 

Gallagher, with his stupid abs and his stupider grin and his stupidest words. Gallagher, who will most likely end up being the death of him. It’s the cost of the addiction, the downside of the good fucking, and like any other self-respected fanatic fiend, Mickey hasn’t fully acknowledged the death sentence he’s condemned on himself.

He’s in the stage of denial. Basically.

It's yet another one of those “mornings after” and the vicious realization hits him harder than his hangover, the dull aching from the beers consumed last night currently drumming through his temples.

It’s making him dizzy enough to wake up, head swimming under the bridge between yesterday’s oversights and today’s regrets. Every other part of him feels guilty, mortified but oh, so satisfied.

He doesn’t have to actually open his eyes to know that he’s not in his bed and to know in whose bed precisely he ended up in.

Fuck.

This was _not_ supposed to happen. Not again. 

Their legs are tangled; Mickey's head is resting against Ian's collarbone, his forehead scuffing the juncture between Ian’s shoulder and neck. When Mickey finally opens his eyes, he meets Ian's gaze with a sigh. For a moment, Mickey feels exhausted despite having just woken up. 

"This was the last time," Mickey swears, first thing in the morning. Pretty early to start lying, even for a Milkovich. "This was the last time we fucked." 

Instead of conjuring shock or just the slightest sign of disappointment, Ian smirks.

"Of course," he agrees easily, probably because they both know that he'll have Mickey back in his bed by the end of the week. Maybe even less.

"I fucking mean it, Gallagher." Mickey insists as he stands up, looking for his clothes. They always end up all over Ian's bedroom, no matter how hard Mickey tries to remind himself to leave them in a pile somewhere, only for the sneaking out of the next morning to become easier.

It looks like this sun-up won’t be an exception as a naked Mickey starts the scavenger hunt for his underwear in the midst of all of Ian’s shit.

Ian lies back on the bed, unbothered and unhurried, gaze heavy on Mickey who moves swiftly around the bedroom, picking up strands of his discarded clothes all over the place.

His underwear is under the bed and his socks are near the hamper and Mickey frowns when he finally finds his shirt in the middle of the floor– most of the buttons are ripped off. He glares at Ian whom offers no apologies, just another stupid fucking smirk. Mickey abandons the shirt in favor of putting his boxers on and ignores the grunt of disappointment coming from Ian. 

"I was enjoying the view," he chooses to comment then. Mickey uses one of the socks he’s holding to throw at his head. Infuriatingly enough, he’s not holding a belt with a metal clasp, because that might actually cause damage. Predictably enough, Ian catches the aimed sock, his rowdy laughter almost making Mickey forget his own crankiness. 

Almost. 

“Well I hope you took a mental picture because it was the last fucking time you were seeing it.”

Ian doesn't call him out on his lie, even if they both know he’s lying through his ass right now. His very sore ass. 

Fuck, why does he keep ending up in Ian's bed?

When he swears himself not to?

How does he keep falling for the same tricks, same ruse of dirty talks and wicked hands? It’s like Ian has a fool-proof way of breaking through every wall Mickey tries to build between them to keep them apart. 

A misstep, a slipup, a mistake. That's all that this, whatever it should be called, is.

It was a misstep to let Ian escort him out of the Alibi with a hand on the small of his back, a slipup to go home with him, and a big-ass mistake to let the guy fuck him, slow and deep, into the quiet hours of the night.

Also, a mistake to stay over after the deed was done, when he knows damn well he shouldn't have, because it's always harder to leave in the morning, groggy and sore, than it is to do so in the dark of the night.

It’s just that Ian’s bed is much more comfortable, than his own; the mattress isn’t as old, and the sheets are softer.

At least that’s the excuse is twisted mind always conjures. In reality, Ian’s bed is probably just as shitty as his own. He’s a Gallagher, after all.

There is the tiniest shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of Ian's mouth and Mickey can only brace himself for the kind of shit this asshole is about to invoke.

"You always say you won't come back," Ian reminds him, like Mickey isn’t fucking aware of what comes out of his own fucking mouth. “And yet, here we are.” 

"I'm not coming back," Mickey makes sure to enunciate, very carefully.

Ian shrugs and Mickey's eyes narrow at his dismissive attitude.

"Suit yourself. In the meantime, I’m taking a shower." Ian decides and he stands up in all of his naked glory, and Mickey pretends that the artwork on the opposite wall suddenly requires all of his attention. It’s just a stupid pop-art poster of Uncle Sam’s classic _“I want you”_ quote and it doesn’t deserve the time of the day but that’s beside the point.

Mickey doesn't look up, not even when Ian shoots him a wink and makes some dirty joke about saving water by showering together. 

It’s when he hears the start of the water running from walls away that Mickey lets out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding in. Quickly and quietly, he gets the hell out of the Gallagher house before he can see Ian again, before the man tricks him into anything else that will fill his head with shame and desire at the same time.

_ _ _

“You left with my shirt,” Ian says, hours later, as soon as he enters the Alibi and slides in his regular stool.

Mickey glances down, having completely forgotten what he was wearing to see Ian’s two-sizes too big t-shirt falling loosely around his hips and waist. “You ripped mine apart, asshole, how was I supposed to leave?”

And it's such typical Ian behaviour to make a fucking fuss big enough to disrupt his working shift over something as dumb as a _borrowed_ shirt, that Mickey shouldn't be surprised. He shouldn't, yet he is because Ian always manages to find creative ways to irritate him. The way he gets under his skin... it's fucking worse than heroin, Mickey swears.

“Maybe you weren’t supposed to leave, then. Maybe you were meant to stay in my bed.” Ian says casually, propping his elbows on the bar with his usual confidence.

It takes two steps for Mickey to reach him from his side of the bar and start hissing at him. “Shut the fuck up.” Glancing around to see that the bar is mostly empty and unbothered, he adds with more calm. “None of this shit when I’m working,”

Ian isn’t bothered at all, worse, he seems to find Mickey’s behaviour funny when it's supposed to be fucking threatening. “V knows we’re fucking. Kev knows we’re fucking. I’m pretty sure Kermit knows we’re fucking. Who are you trying to fool, Mick?”

The _me_ goes unsaid, but it’s as obvious as the palpable sexual tension between them. Mickey avoids both by busying himself with serving Ian his standard drink of choice, Guinness on tap.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about Gallagher,” he denies as he fills the glass to the brim with beer. “But you better shut up about it if you don’t want your face pushed in,”

“Push it in with your ass, babe, fucking smother me.” Ian offers with his standard arrogance and Mickey can do so much not to drop the glass he’s holding or empty its containment in his face.

“Keep saying shit like that in public and I’ll cut your tongue out,” Mickey tries to retort casually, as he serves Ian his beer. because he knows Ian, knows Ian only says half of the shit to entice a reaction. It’s the best Mickey can do not to give him one. Not to fuel the fucking wildfire or some shit.

He fails half of the time.

“Are all bartenders this threatening?

“Don’t think so. You’re welcome to find any other establishment to serve you drinks in the middle of the afternoon.”

Ian pretends to take the shot to the heart, hands going over his bulged-up chest like the drama fucking queen that he is. “You wound me, Milkovich.”

He’s still smiling though and it’s all Mickey can do not to roll his eyes. “Any reason why you’re here on a Tuesday at 3 pm?”

“Can’t a hard-working man enjoy a refreshing drink without being interrogated?”

Mickey can’t suppress the eye roll this time. “Jesus, Gallagher, you sound more like your dad every day.”

“Ouch. Now, I’m actually wounded.”

But Mickey ignores him, knows Ian’s ego is big enough to absorb any joke he sends his way, as conniving as they can be. “And I happen to know you’re not working today.”

It’s definitely the wrong thing to say. They don’t acknowledge this thing they do, or at least Mickey doesn’t. Never. Never ever. Mickey realizes his slipup as soon as it leaves his mouth, as soon as he takes in Ian’s surprised look. It’s only there for a fraction of a second, before Ian scolds his face into its usual cocky stare. Maybe even cockier.

Bastard.

“How would you know that, Mick?” Ian asks, leaning further onto his elbows and closer to Mickey. His voice lowers, and Mickey recognizes it as his seduction tone only because he’s been at the receiving end of it enough times already.

“Are all EMTs this smug?” he diverts the topic at hand, echoing Ian’s words from before.

But Ian’s smirk only grows wider, like a hunter about to pounce on his prey and by now, Mickey should have fucking known not to play with fire. Fire in this case, being a ginger whose foul mouth knows no shame.

“Just the ones packing nine inches.” He says, getting up from his stool to give Mickey a discrete peak of a semi-erect cock outlined behind tight pants. “All this dirty talk is getting me really horny,”

Mickey can only admit defeat, being once again floored by the depths of Ian’s shamelessness. Playing dirty in fucking public, at his workplace of all places. The audacity of this fucking asshole.

It’s all he can do not to visibly gulp or a pop a boner right back in the middle of a shift, so he leaves Ian there, tending to the needs of imaginary customers at the other end of the bar.

He still hears Ian’s laugh, and he can still see his fucking smirk with his back fucking turned.

_ _ _

Three hours later and Mickey finds himself once again in Ian’s bed, right in the enemy’s lap. He’s admitting he’s a junkie. And he needs his fucking hit.

What’s the stage that comes after denial?

One of his hand is tangled in Ian's flaming red, buzzed hair while the other roams around the chest area, looking for naked skin to touch. Ian slides his fingers up Mickey's thigh, up to the zipper of his jeans.

"Off, want everything off–" Mickey mumbles against Ian's lips, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt with impatient moves.

"Eager, are we?" Ian taunts, and Mickey feels his lips curve up to a smirk, so he slips his tongue inside Ian's mouth, trying to shut him up. 

“Stop talking,” Mickey says, unwilling to participate in Ian’s silly games of teasing as he goes to lift off his own shirt but Ian stops the motion, hands circling his wrists.

Mickey raises a questioning eyebrow but Ian flips them over before he can even ask. Having kept the firm grip on Mickey’s wrist, he brings both arms above his head, pinning them into the crown of the mattress.

“Wanna fuck you while you wear my shirt,” Ian offers as explanation with a grunt, moving one hand to Mickey’s jeans, quick to unzip them and tug them down, the other palm big enough to trap both his wrists in one grip.

It’s an oddly sexy request and it’s far less kinky than half of the shit they’ve done but it’s intimate enough for Mickey to at least pretend to protest.

"I’m not your fucking property, Gallagher,” He claims, but the pointblank hungry way he’s grinding into the bed, hips and ass rolling up in desperate need for friction, proves he’s not too bothered. Not at all. “You can’t just– fuck– you can’t just claim me,”

"Oh can’t I? Pretty please? I promise I'll make it fun for you too," Ian smirks, leaving a trail of bites and kisses from his collarbone to the shell of his ear.

Mickey wants to protest again but Ian rolls his hips down at the same time as he nips at _that_ spot on his neck and Mickey forgoes the objection for a moan. Ian makes a sound of approval, letting go of his wrists to free them of their remaining clothes. Mickey doesn’t let him get too far, sitting up to latch his mouth on his naked collarbone, latch his arms around Ian’s neck as soon as his shirt is off.

“Thought last night was our last time?” Ian says, just because he’s a little shit, and Mickey groans, in pleasure or in annoyance, remains a mystery.

“Somebody ever told you that you talked too much, Gallagher,” he says in between pants as Ian pushes him to lie down on his back, gripping Mickey’s legs to place them around his waist.

He’ll never say it aloud but he loves when Ian manhandles him like this. When Ian controls his every move, dominates his body in a way that reeks desire. He knows Ian knows though, some things don’t have be said outwardly to be understood.

“You. Like a thousand times.”

“Yeah, well maybe mhmm… maybe we should busy your mouth some other way.”

Ian seems eager to tackle on the challenge as he crawls down on the bed, shoving his t-shirt up to expose half of Mickey’s stomach and his pelvis. His heart beats hard against his ribcage when he feels Ian capture his wrists again. The notion behind the move is implicitly explicit: don’t move. The excitement pools in his stomach. Mickey complies and settles down on the sheets, eyes trained on Ian as he takes out his cock, jerking it twice before letting it go again.

Keeping up their heated staring, Ian lowers his mouth down onto Mickey's cock, taking all of it at once. It makes him curse out in pleasure, hands involuntarily struggling against Ian's restraints as his ginger starts bobbing his head up and down, picking up speed.

“Hmm.. Fuck yes, Ian. Just like that.”

Mickey doesn’t know how that’s possible but he’s pretty sure Ian’s smirking even with his mouth full of cock. Pulling back, Ian swirls his tongue around the pink tip of his dick, revelling in the way Mickey's breathing gets more laboured. 

Mickey can feel it already, can feel the orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, so he opens his mouth to warn Ian, but just as he’s about to, Ian goes for another plunge down his cock, and all that can come out of his mouth is another strenuous _fuck._

He sees the devil in Ian's angel green eyes. The way he revels on pleasuring Mickey till the first brims of pain. It doesn’t scare him, just turns him on even more.

"Ian– fuck– Ian...” he lets out, breathlessly “You need to stop or I'm gonna come,"

"So what? I'm not in any hurry," Ian sing-songs suggestively, but then he frowns. "Oh, shit, I kind of am, actually. Fuck. Okay, let's get this show on the road." 

Mickey wants to ask what Ian is doing afterwards, what’s got him so busy that he’s willing to compromise their fucking session, but stops himself from doing so because it's not his business and because once Ian starts prepping him, the whole universe slips out of his mind.

The prep doesn’t take too long since Mickey was being split open Ian’s dick less than twenty-four hours ago. Two fingers later and Mickey’s ready to get rammed.

“Ready for me, babe?” Ian asks but it’s rhetorical seeing as he knows Mickey’s body is definitely ready for him. Ian probably knows his ass better than he does by now, with the amount of time he spends between his legs.

“Yes, fuck me already.” Mickey pants out and Ian doesn’t spare time before granting his wish, pushing his dick in with an abrasion that makes both men moan boisterously.

Ian’s got a hand in Mickey’s (his own) shirt, and the strength with which he’s gripping through the fabric and into the flesh behind it will surely leave a mark on his hip in the form of fingerprints but Mickey doesn’t care, _cannot_ care, with the way Ian’s delivering thrust after thrust.

Neither one of them last long. Mickey insists on keeping their lips glued together, sucking on Ian's bottom lip until it's swelling inside his and Ian’s stealing the moans right out of his mouth, freeing one of his hand to start jerking Mickey off.

It only takes a handful of wrist flicks before Ian has Mickey gasping hotly against his mouth, and spilling out, lines of cum spraying his stomach and shirt. Ian follows him to the euphoric finish line in less than a few thrusts after that.

Fuck. That was incredible.

Is it possible that they manage to outdo themselves after all this time? It sure fucking feels like it.

Ian leans his forehead against Mickey's, both of them breathing hard.

"Gonna pull out," Ian mumbles, "Ready?"

Mickey makes an affirmative sound and barely winces when Ian pulls out. Then Ian rolls off of him, falling back on the bed with a tired thump.

“You definitely ruined your shirt,” Mickey says, in between breaths, glancing down to see the shirt he’s still wearing covered in a mix of their sweat and cum. It’s fucking gross yet Mickey doesn’t have the energy to move enough to undress. “Is that what you wanted?”

Ian laughs, “Not really. But it was worth it.” And it’s a corny enough reply to make Mickey laugh too.

Their laboured breaths slowly even out, and then it's quiet again. The moment is pleasant enough to be spent in silence: they don't need to speak to be comfortable. Not after all this time together. Mickey is too blissed-out, too peaceful in this post-orgasm fog to make an attempt to move away or get cleaned up.

For the first time in a very _very_ long time, Ian is the first one to pull away. “Okay, I need to get going or I’ll be late.”

Mickey leans on to his elbow, watching from the bed as his ginger gets dressed. He can’t help himself from asking his next question. “Where are you going?”

“Dinner.”

“Dinner with who?” Mickey asks frowning because it’s unlike Ian to ever fucking stop talking and right now pulling information out of him feels as difficult as pulling teeth. It’s fucking suspicious is what it is and there can only be one reason for Ian’s elusiveness. Mickey’s inkling is confirmed when he sees Ian putting on what he recognizes as his nicest pair of jeans.

His _getting-in-your-pants_ pants.

He feels his heart drop.

“Just this new guy at the station.” Ian offers as he buttons up his dress shirt, still very vague and very out of character for him to be acting shady enough to make Mickey mad.

“You know you don’t have to hide from me that you’re going on a date. I don’t give a fuck.” Mickey says as he jumps out of bed, cursing once again the fact that his clothes manage to scatter all over the room every time they’re taken off. He’s quick to put on his boxers and pants and steals another one of Ian’s shirt to replace the dirty one he’s wearing.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Ian says, tone matching Mickey’s in a way that makes him realize they’re close to shouting.

“Good.” He growls, once he’s dressed and ready to storm out. Yet the staring contest he’s having with Ian feels too important to leave.

“Good.” Ian growls back, staring right in the deeps of Mickey’s feverish eyes.

Ian’s the first one to lower his gaze, moving to grab his wallet on the nightstand near his bed with a sigh. “This is usually the time where you say you’re never coming back here and that we’re done...” With Mickey's visible gape, the asshole can't help up but add. "...If you could get on with it. I've got places to be."

And it’s arrogant in typical Ian fashion but it lacks its usual playfulness or warmth. This time, it’s straight-up petty and patronizing and it enrages Mickey as much as it pains him.

He lets the rage flow out, because it’s much easier to deal with than the second aforementioned feeling.

“You’re such a fucking dick, Ian. Have the worst date ever!” Mickey spits on Ian’s cool and collected demeanor, making his quick getaway as he swears to himself that he’s never fucking coming back here.

Ian and he are done. For real this time.

They’re done and he’s never coming back. He swears.

_ _ _

It takes five hours for him to break his promise, out of which three are spent drinking alone in an attempt to numb down whatever it is that he is… _feeling_. The first one is spent being furious at Ian, for going on the date or for hiding it, he’s unsure.

The second is spent being furious at himself because he’s not allowed to be mad at Ian over this. Not when he’s the one who told Ian they weren’t exclusive all those months ago. When he’s the one who pushes Ian away at every chance he gets. The one who puts barriers between them so tall a professional climber couldn’t mount them. That’s when the drinking starts.

The third hour is spent being furious at both of them, because this isn’t the first time that this happens, nor is it the second or third. And honest to God, they’re both to fucking blame. Mickey pathetically wonders if they’ll ever break this vicious cycle that they seem to be stuck in. The one where Mickey pushes Ian away and Ian rebels by fucking every guy that he meets and Mickey rebels by pushing Ian further and further away and Ian fuck on more and more guys and on and on. That’s when the heavy drinking starts.

By the fourth one, Mickey’s no longer mad, simply buzzed and somehow horny. He wants to call Ian, wants to see if his ginger is ready to let him come over, ready to make up. Mickey wants to make up. He wants to fuck the fight away, wants to kiss the callous words out of Ian’s mouth as Ian licks his away. He remembers at the last second, that Ian’s supposed to be on a fucking date, with some fucking nameless, faceless nobody. _New guy at the station._

It’s not enough to stop him from calling, simply slows him down a little. Which means he calls Ian in the middle of the fifth hour.

He’s an addict, after all, he can’t help himself. And frankly, _new guy at the station_ can go fuck himself for all he cares.

“Hold on a sec,” Ian says as soon as he picks up, and Mickey forgets what he was about to say, distracted by the sound of Ian’s voice and the disgruntled background noise he can now hear as he awaits for Ian to pick up the phone again.

“What’s up?” Ian says when he eventually comes back on the line, the background noise distinctively quieter. Almost inexistent.

“Still on your date with _new guy at the station_?” Mickey asks, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone. They’re far past that.

“The one and only…Just left to smoke one out.” Ian offers but it sounds strained and Mickey hates it.

“How’s it going?”

He can hear Ian’s laugh, can picture it as if he were standing right in front of him. “Do you really care?”

Mickey does but he doesn’t necessarily want the answer that comes along, so he foregoes the question in favor of another one. A much simpler one. “He letting you smash tonight?”

“Haven’t asked yet.” Ian’s laughing again and Mickey’s too drunk to tell if it’s bitter or playful. Condescending or flirty. Maybe he doesn’t care. He wants Ian either ways.

“Cuz I’ll let you smash…” He hears Ian’s sharp intake of breath, like the guy is actually surprised that Mickey’s going out of his way to ruin his date. Like this exact scenario hasn’t played out a hundred times already. “You know… if your little date isn’t a sure thing in the bag.”

Like they don’t know how this night will end.

“I’ll be there in there in fifteen.”

_ _ _

Mickey doesn’t know how he’s riding Ian’s dick without throwing up all over him, not with the amount of alcohol running through his veins. Fortunately, Ian seems pretty hammered himself, tipsy enough not to notice – or at least, not to worry about it. Also, they’ve done this enough times for Mickey to kind of have become an expert on drunk riding dick.

It’s no drunk driving but it’s just as dangerous.

“Christ, Mick, just like that” Ian says from under him, flushed red from his cheeks all the way to his chest, solid hands going from his ass to his hips to his ass again. “Fuck, this feels fucking great”

“Better than your date?” Mickey asks, not sober enough to hide his jealousy. He’s still bouncing up and down Ian’s cock as he steadies himself on Ian's shoulders, ass cheeks slapping against Ian’s thighs with every motion.

“Better than he could ever be. Better than anyone else could ever be.” Ian praises and the words alone are enough to make Mickey come, untouched dick in all, but he holds it in the favor of prolonging this pleasurable moment.

“Promise?” 

“I promise, baby. No one does it for me like you do.” Ian continues to praise, as he holds tightly onto Mickey's waist, lifting him up with each bounce only to bring him down again. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

“Tell me,” Mickey demands as he rides Ian faster, fucking himself on Ian’s cock, with his thighs shaking from the effort. “Tell me, tell me how good I am.”

“So good, baby… So fucking good” Ian purrs, wrapping a hand around Mickey’s neck to bend him down enough to share a kiss. It brings their pace to a halt but Mickey’s quick to reset a new one from his leaning-forward position.

“So pretty, too. Can't believe I get to see you like this… Get you all to myself like this." Ian continues to croon and it makes something cold in Mickey’s heart melt.

“Only you, Ian.” He lets out and feels the instant effect it has on Ian; the last shred of control leaving his body. He’s quick to fuel it. “Only for you.”

“Yeah?” Ian asks, his grip tightening on Mickey’s neckline, other hand traveling down his spine to the flesh of his ass.

Mickey can only nod, biting his lip to keep in the words of promise and love and commitment threatening to spill.It’s enough to make Ian sit up, moaning all the way up as he takes Mickey into his lap and starts fucking him upwards. His hand rests still around Mickey's neck; still choking him and Mickey’s mouth hangs slightly open as his panting grows more erratic.

"Wanna come, baby?" Ian whispers, other hand grazing the skin next to Mickey's hard cock. "Wanna come with my hand wrapped around your neck?" 

" _Yes!_ Please, let me come, please, _please,"_ Mickey begs, moaning loudly as Ian's cock hits him just right, rendering him breathless. The pleasure roaming in the pit of his stomach makes his blood pump faster, he can barely think with how good he feels. 

"How much do you want it? Tell me" Ian taunts and Mickey moans out a series of curses and pleasesas Ian shoves into him harder, hitting his prostate dead on with each thrust. Pleasure runs up Mickey's spine making his back arch, making him feel so good, so _full_ , that it’s enough to lose all control. Mickey can feel himself let go, can feel the orgasm reaching him until it’s shaking him through his core.

Mickey's head is a mess of ecstasy and fever as he releases all over Ian's abs, but Ian doesn’t let up once he delivers a mind-blowing orgasm to Mickey, holding him tighter as he fucks him through it. The sight of his cum on a such perfect, such chiseled sculpture of a body would be enough to send him to the edge again if his balls weren’t completely empty by now.

Still, Mickey can’t help himself from sticking a finger into the toned lines of Ian’s stomach – Ian, who’s still currently chasing his own orgasm from the inside Mickey’s walls– right in the sticky mess of his own bodily fluids. He also can’t help himself from bringing his own finger up his mouth, licking it up before sucking it clean and dry.

“Fuck, baby, taste yourself again.” Ian commands, breathless and wild, and Mickey can only help but oblige his ginger God, repeating the motion with the same finger.

The sight is enough to push Ian off the edge, cumming inside Mickey with a gasp and a shudder.

“Fucking shit, that was amazing.” Ian lets out after a minute and Mickey’s too fucked to outwardly agree but he knows his blissed-out expression speaks for itself.

It takes another for minute for Ian to gently disentangle their limbs, pulling out of Mickey with unusual softness. They fall down onto to the mattress, simultaneously and Mickey’s closing his eyes before Ian reaches for the night lamp near the bed to turn the light off, the effects of the alcohol and the sex and the pant-up energy delivering their final stance.

“Fuck, Mick. I ought to make you jealous more often if it gets me laid like that.” Ian delivers his final words of the night, chest pressed to Mickey’s back, chin resting on the top of Mickey’s head.

“ _Don’t_.” Mickey manages to bark out before he lets sleep engulf him to the fullest.

There are many hidden gems behind Mickey’s single-worded command. Many secret wishes that go unsaid in the outspoken word, in the vulnerability of the night.

 _Don’t_ make me jealous again. _Don’t_ fuck other people. _Don’t_ fucking play me, Ian; _don’t_ play me like I’ve been playing you. _Don’t_ let me push you away. _Don’t_ hurt me, even if you can, even if you have the power to.

But Mickey’s too tired to say any of this accurately, right now. Too chicken-shit to actually communicate with Ian, always.

But Mickey isn’t worried, not with the way Ian’s arms squeeze their grip around him tighter as his breaths pan out in the darkness in the room. Mickey isn’t worried because they’ve got time. Because even if he freaks out when he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll come back to Ian.

And even if Ian goes on a million dates, fucks his way through the population of gay men in Chicago, he’ll come back to Mickey.

Because as much as Mickey thinks he’s addicted to Ian, he _knows_ Ian is just as addicted to him.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Send me prompts on tumblr: toastyhusbandstand
> 
> thanks for reading! :)


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